


Lady Killer

by thrives



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood Kink, Drama & Romance, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Foreplay, Hate Sex, Hisoka's Bungee Gum Nen Ability (Hunter X Hunter), Kink Negotiation, Nen (Hunter X Hunter), One Shot, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-18 15:56:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21530200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thrives/pseuds/thrives
Summary: She digs her nails into his skin, only to find his smile widening. “If I behave myself,” he muses, “will you give me a reward?”
Relationships: Hisoka & Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer, Hisoka & Machi, Hisoka/Machi (Hunter X Hunter), Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer & Machi, machi - Relationship
Comments: 10
Kudos: 87





	Lady Killer

# lady killer

* * *

> _"He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t talk about the past. He has no interest in the past. He doesn’t associate with others. He’s his own man. Because he believes himself to be the strongest."_

* * *

Machi’s third visit to Heaven’s Arena coincides with her first legal job in three years. A paying client with millions of jenny at his disposal, one who comes at Danchou’s recommendation, an undefeated champion — she should be thrilled by the prospect.

She isn’t.

Her Nen spikes with dread as she stands before the gleaming spires, a cool metropolitan breeze tickling the loose strands of her hair. The sapphire sky borders on artifice, billowy cumulus gathering around Heaven’s peak. The sheer size is breath-taking, only slightly lessened by the midday rush of spectators. Ink-stained tickets crumpled in sweaty palms, they surge forward, eager to witness the undoing of Kastro.

Machi runs an absent thumb over a needle, tugging her hood low over her eyes. They underestimate Hisoka, of course. For the mortals of Padokia, a blow is a blow. _All is lost_ , the commentator will moan theatrically; Hisoka will rise to his feet, swiftly, violently, and take his opponent out.

She has seen it done many times.

_If I am grievously injured after my battle with Kastro, I may require your services._

She might have — could have easily — said no. Did she say yes, she wonders, because of Kuroro? Or because of something else? She has witnessed Hisoka after a fight, his eyes burning with more purpose than she may ever feel in her entire life. His infinite resolve.

For a cold-blooded killer, Hisoka is frighteningly full of life.

She will stitch him back together, as she has twice before. She will not forget the gleam of power in his stride, the touch of mania that sullies his Nen. She cannot afford to create explanations where there are none. She will never truly trust him, and he will never truly seek her out. It is a safe space to occupy. After all, it is a lonely world, being a Hunter; they are both used to it.

Her phone rings. She holds it to her ear and says, “Hello.”

“Machi _._ Have you come to watch me play at last?”

He curls his mouth around the last syllable, his voice as deep and sensual as she remembers. She is lucky to see through him. A weaker woman would be charmed, besotted, destroyed.

“No,” she says shortly.

“Oh, what a pity.” Hisoka doesn’t sound sad in the slightest. “Then I’ll be seeing you after hours.”

“I’ll meet you in the tunnel. If you’re not a corpse by then.”

His voice positively _glitters_ with hearts. “I’m devastated you have so little faith, Machi. It will be quite the reward to see your lovely face waiting for me.”

“Don’t count on it,” she says.

“Oh? But you’ll be counting my jenny, won’t you? Wicked little creature.”

Machi hangs up before he can finish, pinching her nose between two fingers. Hisoka is the most fickle member of the Troupe, dancing from continent to continent, driven by a tune only he can hear. Danchou was able to track him down for one fight; Hisoka, playing along, hired Machi. But the magician has little use for her otherwise. He could hire a more inexpensive healer, a non-Spider. He does not belong to their family. His motives are masked with a deadly smile and a playing card to the throat. He knows she is there to deliver Kuroro’s message, Yorknew City or punishment. After that, she is collateral damage.

 _He takes a particular interest in you,_ Danchou had said matter-of-factly. _I don't presume to know why._

 _Because I don't grovel at his feet,_ Machi spat. _Neither do_ _the other Legs._

_He asked for you, Machi._

It was a clear dismissal.

She had nodded through gritted teeth, an unwilling pawn in a men's game.

And now she must deliver a message — in more than one fashion.

* * *

True to her word, Machi waits for him outside the tunnel.

Seeing Hisoka in the flesh again is as startling and brilliant as the afternoon sun. He comes striding gracefully down the tunnel, a vision in red and black. His face, though scratched and bloody, is jubilant. His vivid red hair stands at attention, not a strand out of place. Though he is light on his feet, there is no masking his sheer strength and physical largeness. He is effortlessly lithe, tall, broad-shouldered, what is left of his arms rippling with corded muscle.

The yellow star on his left cheek, the pink teardrop on his right. A long gash along his temple, the top of his hair stiff with dried blood. When he sees her, his smile grows. His eyes are glazed with adrenaline, but somehow he manages to fix her with a look of such intensity that she can barely hold his gaze.

His gaze is vulgar, not in a sexual sense, but too intimate. As if he knows everything about her. As if he knows anything about her.

Machi says, "I was never quite sure before, but that match proved it to me. You're an idiot."

He throws his head back and laughs, jaw taut, the slope of his nose almost geometric in its perfection. "I'd forgotten how utterly refreshing you are, Machi."

Such exquisite features are wasted on him, but the cruelty of his mouth only serves to make him more striking. She is stupidly, inanely jealous of his good looks. It would be one thing for his beauty to be observable, compartmentalizable, with his shining black heels and billowing pants, his flawless makeup, the golden color of his eyes. She could live with that. She could grow used to it.

But it is the raw, strange, animalistic attraction that puzzles her, nags at her. Because he is unarguably _male._ If she were not so skilled in her Nen abilities, he might easily overpower her. It would take only one swipe of his hand. He could toss her in the air like one of his playing cards. _Ace of Clubs._ When he's teasing her, playful, hearts glittering in his voice...

She lingers on his stumps, oozing blood and Nen. His aura flickers magenta and violet, Bungee Gum wrapped around his missing appendages. "That's going to cost you."

Hisoka is alarmingly cheerful. "Oh, I know _._ I do so love watching you work, after all."

Machi wouldn't put it past him to have injured himself in order to take stock of her Nen ability up close. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe it was more about seeing her, taking stock of the Spider a number ahead of him. Meteor City stars. _Don't get too close._

She shakes herself out of her reverie. "Come on. We'll find somewhere more private."

"Or we could always stay in the tunnel," he purrs. "I won't tell if you don't."

It unnerves her that she almost thinks about it.

* * *

Hisoka asks her to spend the night.

His hair is loose and damp from his shower, a towel draped around his waist. He's shirtless, leaning over her, one newly repaired arm above her head. His chest is impossibly chiseled, more so than even Kuroro, but not overly muscular like Uvogin. Hisoka is all but anatomically perfect, and Machi resists the urge to run her fingers down his abdomen to test the taut muscle, the smooth marble of his skin. His Spider tattoo is stark, boldly slashed across his sculpted back.

Without makeup, he's even better-looking. In the dying light, his cheekbones are shadowed, eyes lit from within like dark honey. His voice slides over her like silk.

She's halfway out the door by the time his question is answered. Sighing, Machi hoists her bag over one shoulder. Hisoka might be playing a game with her. He might be serious. But she can never take chances with him, and she has to report to Danchou, has another mission in Yorknew City. She would have never stayed. She could have never stayed.

Hisoka is close to becoming a Floor Master. He'll be preoccupied for another few months. She weaves threads of shining blue Nen through her fingers, letting the edges cut into her skin. She savors the quick flash of pain. How dull and ordinary life appears in contrast to Hisoka's transcendent world, his otherworldly plane of existence. As if he sees colors in a different spectrum.

His smirk, stretching across his lips. She thinks about his mouth and shivers, pulling her robe tighter around her thin frame.

Machi can't find it in herself to despise him, strange and sinister as he is. She's killed, stolen, lied. There is not as much difference between them as she would like. He cares for no one and nothing. Fighting gives him meaning; he is like many other Hunters in that sense. What makes him any different?

 _Nothing_ , she tells herself. _Nothing at all._

* * *

The autumn months pass without much ado. Hisoka arrives at the Ryodan meeting with the newly acquired position of Floor Master. The sight of him turns Machi’s stomach. She’s always prided herself on being able to read people, but Hisoka is as inscrutable as he is infuriating.

As the resident floor master, Danchou is unimpressed. Nobunaga, preoccupied with the pesky little Hunters, has left Machi with no choice but to pair up with Hisoka. She turns stiffly to meet his gaze, and he beams innocently, his eyes crinkling. As if nothing would give him more happiness than to be her partner. She sniffs and pointedly avoids looking in his direction again.

He killed #4. He _is_ #4. Such is the way of the Phantom Troupe, but she cannot forgive Kuroro for such a slight. Lalruku had been her sole companion in the dirt-streaked, starless days in Meteor City, teaching her the path of Nen, holding her trembling fingers straight as she retrieved another thread drenched in Zetsu. _Nen comes from here,_ he’d said, jabbing her in the chest. _The deep heart’s core._

It was from a poem he had been fond of quoting.

Lal is dead now, at the hands of a dazzling, dangerous jester. And now she must play at partnership, though Hisoka will never seek to understand the intricacies of her Nen. He has little interest in collaborative efforts. This she has gleaned from her interactions with him, at least.

Hisoka pounces down from the rocks, landing with feline grace. “Do you know something I don't, Ma _chi_?” He places a special emphasis on the last syllable of her name.

She crosses her arms over her chest and gives him a haughty frown. “Did you read the files Danchou sent?”

Hisoka’s eyes dance, and he reaches out to caress the side of her face. She jerks back, but not before she feels something cold and heavy slip from behind her ear. He holds a golden Spider coin between his fingers. “Did you misplace this?” he croons.

Machi snatches the coin from him and stows it in her pocket. “Answer my question.”

“Of course I read the files,” he says cheerfully. “I’m simply wondering what your plan of action is.”

“Your job is to create a commotion.” Machi spears him with a dark look. “That should be easy enough for you. Leave the loot to me.”

He chuckles. “Very well.”

“Why the sudden change in attitude?” she asks frostily. “Last I checked, these meetings are a burden for you.”

Hisoka’s voice suddenly develops a sensual edge. “Ah, but Chrollo is obscenely powerful, isn’t he?”

Machi arches her brows. “Danchou is our leader for a reason.”

“I’d be disappointed if you couldn’t make the connection, Machi,” Hisoka continues, voice sparkling with spades. “His Nen is remarkable.”

Machi’s realization is instantaneous and laughable. “You want to fight _Danchou_?”

Hisoka’s answering grin is indulgent. “That was quick.”

“He’ll kill you,” she says confidently. “You don’t stand a chance.”

Hisoka’s heart-shaped earrings tinkle as he moves, sending a deck of cards soaring into the air with a flick of the wrist, fuchsia rectangles sweeping down in a clean arc before embedding themselves cleanly into the wall. Machi surveys the perfect silhouette of her body as the cards sway back and forth, eager to escape their rocky confines. He opens his palm to reveal the Queen of Clubs.

“Don’t you want to hear my theory?” he drawls.

Machi wraps a Nen thread around her arm, flexing the muscle to test its strength, then sends a golden needle hovering directly above his heart. Hisoka crouches down, examining the pointed end with the edge of his nail. “Impressive,” he says.

She lets it draw blood for a moment, then retracts the needle. Her eyes flash with blue fire. “I am not your ally. I am not your plaything. And I do not care for your little card tricks. You are no Spider and no friend of mine.”

Hisoka bows low, cards disappearing in a flume of lavender smoke. “Agreed, on one account.”

Machi ignores his theatrics and says, “I don’t want to see you until tonight’s job, and I expect you to do your part. If you need something, don’t bother coming to me.”

As she walks away, he pouts. “So cruel to me.”

“Then your pain tolerance is alarming low,” she tosses over her shoulder.

“Only when it comes to you, darling Machi.”

* * *

The auction begins at seven in the evening.

The grand ballroom is packed with wealthy individuals in delicate, glittering constructions of glamour. Strings of opalescent pearls rest against swanlike necks, ruby gems sparkling around slender wrists, gilded lanterns dangling among the bergamot-scented enclaves. Everyone looks heavenly, forced laughter tinkling and heady cigarette smoke wafting across the dance floor as Machi weaves through the fringes of the crowd. She is wearing a simple, elegant white gown so as not to stand out, though her shining pink hair cannot be helped. Pakunoda had made a vain attempt to pin back the stray curls with a pearl-encrusted comb, painting Machi’s eyes with dark kohl and her lips with shimmering gloss.

Machi barely recognizes the nymph in the mirror. Her blue eyes — a feature she’s never overly cared for, bearing in mind their rare, instantly recognizable hue — are flashing sapphire, her short stature offset by the dress’s gratuitous illusion of long, creamy legs. She must dress to fit in, must appear just as polished and sophisticated as any of the attending socialites. Anything that might put the Mafia men on alert could jeopardize the mission — that is, if Hisoka manages to demonstrate an iota of competence by creating a useful diversion.

Unfortunately, she trusts him about as far as she can throw him.

To add insult to injury, he looks divine. His black tuxedo seems tailored perfectly to his muscular arms, those powerful thighs and graceful waist. His hair is loose, like hers, the roots a rich indigo that transforms seamlessly into his trademark sunset red. His cheekbones seem carved by the gods as they stand behind a beaded curtain, the shadows playing with the light across his face. His skin is absurdly smooth, even stripped clean of any makeup. He seems preoccupied with something, his brows drawn comically high.

Amber eyes narrowed into slits. The cruel set of his lips.

She feels the absurd urge to slide her fingers inside that luscious mouth. Would he close his velvet tongue around her, or bite down? A line of thinking that is frightening and dangerous to indulge in. She will not allow physicality to play any role in distracting from the Ryodan’s plan. No matter what her body aches for, Hisoka is a betrayal. A betrayal of herself, of Lal, of the Phantom Troupe.

To let him affect her is to allow him to win. Once he has had his way with her, his little infatuation — can she even call it that much? — will be over. No more flirting, no more heart-eyes, no more dramatic pouts. He only shows her favor because she refuses to bend to his will. If Machi ever gives in, all she will become is another weak-minded, worthless tool in his itinerary.

And she is sick and tired of being a tool for men to use.

“The Ten Don,” Machi says conversationally. “See brown suit over there?”

Hisoka stretches his Zetsu out to test the surrounding area. He is impossibly good with his Nen; Machi can only barely make out his aura, and they are standing shoulder to shoulder. With her heels, she reaches his chin. Still, it never feels like an even playing ground.

“Our target, I presume,” he says.

“One of thirteen,” she replies, winding her arm through his as a procession passes by. He looks down at her, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “Have I told you how _delightful_ you look tonight, Machi?”

She digs her nails into his skin, only to find his smile widening. “If I behave myself,” he muses, “will you give me a reward?”

Machi lets go of him, threads gleaming between her fingers. She does not miss the glee in his expression at the sight of her undisguised Nen, and she sends an imaginary thread straight through his heart. _If she kills him, will she become #4?_ It seems a fit way to honor Lal’s memory — if only Hisoka wasn’t in the habit of holding back. It is a clever trick, because she still has no idea whether the full extent of his powers surpasses hers.

But Hisoka is not simply brawn and bloodlust — his mind is dangerously sharp, the gears always whirring, always on the hunt for the opportunity to participate in the next greatest fight. He’s both strategic and selfish, manipulative and whimsical, dancing from one fixation to the next with no regard for the destruction he leaves in his wake. 

He is a flight risk, one the Spiders can’t afford to take on.

She’d mentioned this to Chrollo. Her intuition is never wrong, and Danchou knows this.

He had allowed Hisoka’s initiation anyway.

Machi will not play coy. Her voice is cold and impervious when she answers. “I’ll accomplish the mission, with or without you.”

Hisoka says, “Do you remember my second skill?”

“Texture Surprise,” Machi says curtly. 

“I’m flattered.”

“No,” she says, keeping her voice light as a giggling woman waltzes past. “You’re checking to see if I kept track. Satisfied?”

“So you do care a little.” He sounds pleased. “I named it after my favorite candy brand as a child, you know.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“You said brown suit — his name is Bean,” Hisoka says smoothly. “I’ll take care of him. Loudly _._ ”

Machi nods, her gaze lingering on the subtle curve of his lips for half a second. “Good.”

* * *

All is _not_ good.

Machi winds a thread around her fourth kill, slicing his throat with lethal efficiency before bending over backward just in time to avoid the volley of bullets heading straight for her face. She tosses a thread to the ceiling and effortlessly swings across the ballroom, stabbing the shooter in the spine with the jagged end of her stiletto. A bullet grazes her shoulder; she watches the rivulet of blood run down her arm and stain her dress with a mixture of fascination and fury, then opens her hands to reveal a web of translucent threads, winding them around the fifth target and squeezing ever so slightly.

Hisoka is observing her massacre from the neighboring roof, a menacing shadow with a flicker of scarlet aura. If she was close enough to see his expression... that gleeful, murderous grin... 

Oh, how she'd _love_ to slit his useless throat.

Hisoka has a friendly arm slung across Bean's shoulder. Machi takes out two men with her longest thread, then uses the wall as a springboard to reach the veranda. Her dress has a jagged slit that leaves most of her left leg exposed, but she ignores the trickle of blood and sweat that stings her eyes, using her threads to tug herself up the side of the building.

She watches Bean hold his cigar to his mouth; Hisoka conjures a flicker of flame with one hand and allows their _target_ to take a long, slow puff. Oh, she loathes him. It's all one long joke to him, the jester, the clown. He can do what he likes. _Don't you care about anything, you damn clown?_ she wants to scream. _Don't you care that we're all dying down here?_

 _Of course I don't,_ his eyes say.

Machi reaches the top, eyes burning, and slices Bean's head clean off. His blood spatters across Hisoka's suit, but the magician only snickers lightly. She wraps her Nen threads around his neck, not caring whether she draws blood.

"You bastard _,_ " she seethes. 

"Don't be that way," he croons, elated. His eyes travel to the exposed skin of her thigh. "It was so _exciting_ to watch you on your own."

Machi jerks the threads forward, tugging him to her with one finger, and wastes no time socking him in the face.

A jolt of pure satisfaction surges through her as her fist meets his cheek, his head twisting with the sheer force of her punch. Hisoka swipes at his bloodied mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes flashing with elation and something close to arousal. Machi notices too late that he'd taken the opportunity to wrap Bungee Gum around her legs and waist, rooting her to the ground.

His skin flickers; a moment later he looks as he usually does, hair in the shape of a flame and lips curving wickedly upwards.

"That felt good," she tells him.

"Was that an excuse to touch me?" Hisoka asks merrily.

"You're delusional."

But being this close to him, even inadvertently, sets a prickle of uncomfortable awareness down her spine. She wasn't so weak. But how long had it been since she'd felt this kind of fury for someone? Kuroro would never understand how deep her loyalty runs. She'd kissed him once, savoring the taste of unrequited lust. But _this —_ this is requited, or as requited as it can be. Hisoka's emotions are driven by bloodlust at best, but she's seen the gleam in his eyes. In some small, insignificant way, he wants her.

 _I've never seen Hisoka be so seriously flirtatious,_ Danchou had said thoughtfully. _It's almost as if he experiences real attraction to you and has no way of addressing it correctly._

Machi tightens her threads. Beads of blood appear on his neck, and he steps closer, his maddening smirk emerging.

"I'm going to kill you," she breathes, suddenly and aggravatingly aware of the tightening of her core, the heat that pools between her legs. Hisoka licks his lips, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Then you die too," he points out, Bungee Gum coiling around her wrists and pinning them to her back.

"Just you wait," Machi pants, tilting her chin up in a show of mutiny. "You're going to wish we'd never met."

"Impossible," he says, hearts shimmering around every syllable.

She makes a show of struggling against his bonds, then pulls his face down to meet hers. "Shut up," she hisses. "Just _shut_ _up_."

Hisoka tosses another strand of Bungee Gum behind them, manipulating it into a kind of shield large enough to obscure both of their bodies. He doesn't say anything but fixes her with a strange, indecipherable smile.

She can't look away from those sensuous red lips. Instead, she spits, narrowly missing his face.

"We're more alike than you want to admit, Machi," Hisoka murmurs, and finally, _finally_ , he touches her. The inside of her wrist. Her skin tingles, her body cries out, throbbing, _aching_ — and it's less than half a touch. He observes this with undisguised glee. The outer edge of her thigh.  She whimpers  slightly and he lifts her hips, grinding into her with such aggression that she shudders all over. Her body breaks out in goosebumps at the feeling of his admittedly massive erection pressing into her.

"Fascinating," he says against her lips.  Machi leans into his beckoning mouth and kisses him with every ounce of loneliness, rage, lust, fear, and reckless abandon in her body. He tastes like blood and sugar and holy water, something tantalizing and ripe.

Hisoka tugs at her bottom lip with his teeth, tongue like warm honey in her mouth, and thrusts a hand into the nape of her neck, pulling on her hair and angling her mouth to fit against his.  She presses her breasts to his chest, running both hands down his sculpted back, pulling him tighter to her body as if she is trying to swallow him. His hand trails up her leg, drawing lazy circles along her skin. Machi palms his tattoo, the plastic feel of it between her hands. Her hair is tangled and sweaty; absently, she thinks of how disappointed Pakunoda will be to see her careful handiwork so thoroughly destroyed.

In one swift movement, Hisoka tears the designer dress all the way up to her stomach.

She groans, threads falling away as he ravages her neck, kissing and biting his way to her breasts.  He uses the edge of a playing card to cut through the bodice, lowering his head to lick a warm, wet circle around her swollen, attentive nipples.  Machi drags a hand through his gelled hair, marveling at its softness before gasping as he suckles her, biting down before using his tongue to soothe the sting. He looks up at her, his gaze so erotic that she sinks into his arms with a soft sigh.

He helps her tug off her heels, discarding them over his shoulder as he leans down to kiss her.

The night air chills her skin but Hisoka is impossibly warm, and she clings to him as he hoists her up with one arm, easily holding her against the sloping roof.  They don't speak; half-dazed, Machi operates as if in a dream, dragging her nails down his back and licking down his marble abs, testing them with her fingers. He laughs at that and uses the edge of his nail to cut through her thong, leaving her wet and exposed to him.

They aren't lovers. He doesn't bother with much foreplay — and doesn't need to, considering how wet she is — past a quick exploration with his fingers. His neck  is smeared  with blood and saliva, and Machi arches her back,  silently  begging for more.  Satisfied, he wastes no time plunging deep inside her, yanking her leg over his shoulder so that he hits a spot inside her that — _yeah_. Her resulting words are an incoherent slur of _god_ and _yes_ and _harder_.

She'd always known he was a master in the bedroom, but this...

They're both sweat-soaked, high off the adrenaline that comes with a good kill, blue makeup smeared across his cheek and  probably  across hers. She can sense his bloodlust radiating from the Nen still wound around her leg.  She bites down hard on his shoulder to keep from screaming, and he grips her ass, squeezing with those large, capable hands until she feels close to death. There's a fine line between pleasure and pain, and Hisoka seems to have hit her  maximum  for both.  Whimpering, she savors the stretch as he fills her again and again, thrusting with casual patience, his lids growing heavy.

Machi goads him on with an _is-that-it_ look. He smirks and adjusts his pace; this time, she can't quite stifle her scream. She grabs his hair, pulling as hard as she can, and he returns the favor with a hand around her neck. Hisoka feeds her his fingers and she sucks  obediently  even as he runs down her teeth.

_I could kill you right now,_ she says, only it comes out as _fuck_.

_You couldn't kill me even if you really  __wanted to,_ he replies, eyes dancing with laughter, but it comes out as _Machi_. He gives her a bruising kiss before pushing into the hilt.

Machi sees stars.

Later he ties her arms above her head, leaving her breasts free to his dominion.  He proceeds to tease her nipples until her vision whites out, those strong fingers circling her clit. He plays with her, rubbing her sensitive folds, tormenting her slick little nub.  His cock, buried inside her, thrusts to an inner rhythm, echoing  pleasurably  through her core. She conjures a thread and winds it around his waist to keep him from shifting, and his muscles tense around it. A moment later, the thread releases.

Machi is too close to climax to care.

Before she can reach that earth-shaking peak, Hisoka shudders, stills and pulls out. She feels his sticky release drip down her thighs and  nearly  cries as her knees buckle with the loss of her orgasm. She digs her nails into his arm, piercing him with a dark glare. Hisoka merely gives her a jaunty smile and dusts off his pale blue pants, getting to his feet.

"Did you need something?" he inquires lightly.

Machi sags against the cold rough surface of the roof, her nipples stiff with arousal, her dress in tatters.  It is a position so thoroughly humiliating that she can only manage a haughty sniff. The ace up his sleeve. Meteor City bars. Hisoka's pretty red hair all tousled in the moonlight.

It's not as if this rough, bloodthirsty collision wasn't in the making already _—_ somehow _,_ though, she didn't expect to feel so alone afterward. It's not as if she can say, _stay here and hold me._ It's not as if he would. Already he is bored of her.

Hisoka's two-fingered salute is graceful, his smirk sweet. Silver spades glimmer in his voice. "Don't bother coming to me."

He's gone before she can summon the energy to kill him.

* * *

> _"_ _You can drop dead when your job is done.”_

* * *

The next time she sees Hisoka, he's challenging Chrollo to the death.

**Author's Note:**

> \- this is dedicated to jen <3  
> \- comments and kudos r very much appreciated  
> \- this is part of a series so if ur mad that hisoka left machi w blue balls stick around ;)


End file.
